Double Vision
by Anna Marcelli Palmer
Summary: They say I am schizophrenic. But they are wrong.


**Double Vision  
**

_A story by Anna Marcelli Palmer_

* * *

_"I have to keep my promise to Maria... and you."_

From light to darkness. From darkness to light. Consciousness comes and goes.

_"Please... Give them a chance to be happy!" _

Falling through the cosmic chaos like a breathing shooting star. Feeling nothing but the frigid miles of space underneath.

_This_ is not what a normal death should feel like. Even though the statement could raise a lot of philosophical debate, I was vaguely expecting life to pass in front of my eyes like a sequence of slideshots, luminous white tunnel ahead, head empty -but certainly not this.

I am sinking in a flamboyant nothing. Waving the world goodbye through a dimentionless distorting mirror.

Tiredly tilt my head, eyes in search of any visual signal that actually makes sense. Firmament and stillness. The earth an indefinite piece of azure in the distance, a blue patch of meaning growing bigger and hotter. Rough collision with the atmosphere, razor sharp and violent. Skin severely burnt, bits of fur torn off. Should be in pain. Should be afraid.

But I'm not.

What should I blame for this? Adrenaline? Endorphins? Some incoherent dying reflex? Brain damage?

Don't know.

Can't care.

Clarity kicks in. We were struggling to defeat the Biolizard. Save what could still be saved of the space colony ARK -the place where I had passed the few happy moments of my erratic life. Save the world.

My energy gone. Unable to sustain orbit. Plummeting to my certain death.

At least I know...I hope... _I pray_ that after the defeat of that abhorrent creation, and with the ARK's orbit eventually restored, my self-sacrifice won't go to waste. That I 'm dying having done good to the humans _she _loved so much.

Even though they took her life.

The untimely end I can no longer fear or avoid is fast approaching...

Down below, the uncertain conglomerate of shape and color is starting to assume an identity, analyzing itself into distinguishable details; a tiny river piercing the heart of a forest; ivory mountain peaks flirting with the sky; in the distance, an enormous city spreading its tentacles upon the tons of geography beneath it, scattering glimmers of light all over the nightlife.

Beauty is too much. Imagine it pump through my veins as I close my eyes.

Can't breathe. Can't feel. Can't scream.

Adrenaline. Vertigo. Asphyxiation.

This must be the time. I am going to-

_THUD. _

* * *

There's something horribly wrong with my memory I've never confessed to anybody.

Well, you probably know my story. Practically everybody does. My face appears from time to time on newspapers and television bulletins. There's a lot of public dispute over whether I'm a hero or a villainous existence bound to endanger the society we live in. As a vital member of the GUN, I am highly regarded by most of my comrades.

So yeah, chances are that you've heard of Shadow the Hedgehog, the living and breathing biological weapon that fought alongside Sonic when the world was at stake. The ebony hybrid that was presumed dead, but was later found by treasure hunter Rouge, alive and in suspended animation at the Doctor's base.

Suffering amnesia.

I went to great lengths in order to unravel the truth behind my past. Did horrible things with the same ease with which I did beneficial ones.

My allies narrated to me the same story everyone now knows. Through other people's eyes, I met with the paranoid Professor Gerald, relieved the repugnant occurences in the space colony, sympathized with his innocent angel of a niece.

Maria.

I was told that we loved each other immensely. They made me believe she was my sunshine. I _fell_ for it.

Actually convinced myself I could recall who she was and what she looked like, and how she meant the world to me. The lack of a past, of a backstory, of what comprises a whole and self-conscient person was too poignant, too much to take.

And thus, before realizing so, I had synthesized imaginary memories, manufactured nonexistent moments with that blonde girl I'd only seen in a worn photograph, even invented a sweet girly voice to go with the face.

The story, the same old story everyone knows... actually sank in. I told everyone how my post-traumatic complications had been cured, memories crystal clear.

Entered the GUN.

Made new acquaiantances.

Fucked Rouge and eventually moved in with her.

Built a life.

Became _someone._

_Why, _you may ask. _Why fill myself, my lover and a whole crowd around me with lies?_

Don't you see? Because I was convinced they were actual facts. My brain... my brain played some serious tricks so that I wouldn't run nuts.

Shunned the truth.

Rejected the problem.

Decided to stick to my pursue of happiness.

Messed up.

But, you see, all this happened a long time ago. Months. Years. Nearly three of 'em. Now this story is cold and remote. Doesn't affect my judgement. Easier to ponder on. And thus lately, the more I think about all those events, the more this crazy idea seems logical.

I never remembered anything.

The proffessor is just a dead lunatic from some old story to me.

Maria is just a name.

Seeing the ARK awakens no memories of my lost years of naivety.

The battle against the Biolizard, falling to the earth...is nothing but a fancy narration to my ears.

What does that mean?

Don't know.

Can't get it off my mind. Am I going insane? Should I tell someone? Would they believe me?

Is this all intentional? Fabricated so that I lose my mind? Are they all against me?

If so, then why? Why?

_Why?_

No, no, I must be losing it. Going schizzo. My friends, my girl- they can't be against me. Even that faker. Must be me. Something within that head is horribly awry. Some synapses must have been undone. Should see a doctor.

_But wait a sec._

Back in those days, I underwent countless examinations by psychiatrists and doctors. Everything was normal.

Something has changed now, then?

Is it madness?

God, it must be my insomnia. Could I be hallucinating? Is it anxiety stemming from my job? Is it that grave an issue anyways? Who the hell cares about the past and all those dead people?

But it's not only that, there is something else. Something missing.

Only have to figure out what it is.

Maybe it would be better to stop with all that nonsense, take a strong sedative to help me relax and go to bed. Rouge has been sleeping for hours now. Didn't want us to have sex tonight. Even she has started to sense something is not right. She may remain silent, but I can tell from her eyes.

When we chat.

When we work.

Even when I'm inside of her.

We are falling apart because of me.

Has to be past three o' clock and I 'm not even sleepy. All this shit is troubling to no end.

What's the deal?

Force myself up, leave the couch, walk towards the mini bar. No scotch and ice for tonight. Plain vodka, if you can call it that anyway- can't remember where I procured it, but it's so strong one's probably better off swallowing pure ethanol.

Just what I need.

Back to the couch.

Sit down.

Drink.

Flinch. The thing's as tasty as medicin.

As the low quality alcohol enters my circulatory system and the room drowns into the haze, a seemingly inevitable and downright illogical question bubbles underneath my skull.

..._Who am I_...?

Puzzled and unquestionably drunk, I grab my leather coat and quietly exit the house, hoping that the cold winter air and the calmness of the night will take my irrational preoccupations away.

* * *

...I remember falling endlessly into the depths of space. Waking up in unknown territory.

Unable to move. Rolling to the side and realizing I'm soaked in blood. Some tree branches had stopped my fall, and one of them, I was later told, stabbed my back. Penetrated vital organs.

Scarlet liquid oozed out from my everything. Unbearable pain. Third degree burns on arms and legs, where no fur had remained.

I fucking lived.

Infinite succession of images and darkness. Everything convoluted and nonsensical. I can only assume that some local people discovered my massacred figure dying in the forest and carried me to a hospital. The branch was removed surgically so that I wouldn't bleed my arteries dry.

Had been hit in the back of my head. Remained unconscious for days, weeks.

When I came around, nurses and doctors asked for my name. Shadow, I told them firmly. But the label on the side of my bed didn't switch from the laconical "Unknown".

The fall caused brain issues. Didn't know where I was, although it was certain that Station Square and all the people I knew where hundreds of miles away. Couldn' t remember a number to call. Couldn't leave, tied in a bed where pharmaceutical substances pumped through my veins twenty four-seven and made me confuse days, happenings, faces.

A blur.

Dunno how much time passed aimlessly in there. The big hole on my back had been swewed and hidden by fur as I recovered, but caused me so severe pain that they said I had to stay, sedated by strong painkillers that rended my brain as solid as a sponge.

But I have to go back, I screamed and no one would listen. I saved the fucking world. Did it all for my dead sister...and that girl.

That girl.

On that bed, at nights when even existing was too excruciating to stand, I would lay awake and recall those green eyes. Thought of their cheerfulness, their naivety, the raw idealism they encased. Of how the female had managed, through a small talk, to change me thoroughly, in ways I'd never imagined. Of how she was so reminiscent of Maria, and yet so totally unlike her in many ways.

Call it obsession, for all I know. But her image kept me alive at times when nurses whispered I'd eventually aggravate and die.

Until one night. Had decided some days ago that the whole situation couldn't go on.

Had to meet my team.

See her.

Tell her what she meant to me.

So I woke up. Pulled the needle off my arm.

Watched with semi- closed eyes the blood that sprayed on my gown after the action.

Nonchalantly approached the door.

Waited there, petrified. Until steps echoed. Louder and louder.

Held my breath, eyes following almost hypnotised the handle as it subsided. The nurse was coming to check if I was allright. A small opening. A bigger opening. As soon as she had slid herself into the dark room my arm had jolted forward, plunging the needle with the sedative into her neck.

She left a small, pleading yelp, and fell unconscious.

Strided my way through corridors and down stairs. Hid motionless against walls and wrestled my way out once noticed.

Out in the streets, in pain and with a buzzing noise in my head. I ran and ran and ran. People stopped and stared, a young man in a hospital gown sprinting at full speed.

Delirium. Exasperation. Physical weakness never experienced before.

A sign cast shoddily upon the sidewalk, and I quickly read, _Police Department. _

Barged inside without second thought. More corridors, more stairs. There was a funny-looking little man -an officer or whatever- behind a door, that raised his myopic eyes from a bunch of papers and stared at me inquisitively.

I am Shadow the Hedgehog, I explained once again. They kept me in that dreadful hospital a few blocks downhill. My partners have to know I am alive. I have to contact my embassy. Go home.

The little man raised an extra thick eyebrow and picked the receiver of an ancient telephone. Mumbled a few words in a phonetically horrendous language I didn't recognise and hung up in a hurry. Looked up again.

"Sir, you know that lying to an officer is against the law, don't you?"

Yeah, I croaked. What with that?

"You are not Shadow."

"_"

"Also, you ran away from the clinic."

"_"

"Stabbed a nurse with a needle."

"_"

"She died some minutes ago of allergic shock."

Not Shadow.  
Died of allergic shock.  
Not Shadow.

Not.

Shadow.

A strange idea occured to me, and for some inexplicable reason, seemed to make perfect sense. All this was just a plan, brainstormed by Robotnik who somehow knew I had survived. Of course I had no doubts with regards to my identity. Someone had messed with the police files or whatever. And the nurse was allergic to a commonly used painkiller -now, what a sequence of coincidences.

It's either luck's a bitch or the Doctor wants me outta his way.

The jerk had started explaining to me my rights -_hello, I've been tied to a bed for ages with no personal data on me, of course I can't afford a friggin' attorney! _- when, without him expecting so, I dashed off.

Panicked. Kicked two cops and punched another two in the face before exiting. Had sirens piercing the ears for what seemed like forever. My back an aching mess, feet numb from the constant movement, body sore from the repeated vibration caused by the contact with the rough concrete.

Realising that my robe still attracted attention, I took it off me. Never wore clothing when I ran, anyways.

Once I realized what country and city I was in, a sigh escaped my lips- at least not a place overseas. Wanted by the local forces and carrying no id, there was no way I could go anywhere on a plane. My feet would be my only means of transport.

And thus I ran.

Virtually turned my legs to rags.

Stopped. Asked. Got a few strange looks.

Ran again.

Days passed, and I'm finally here, head a mess, full of unanswered questions.

Look up in the sky and see nothing but black and stars. Must be past midnight. Three, or four, possibly. Weather freezing cold.

Where should I go first?

The answer flashes in my mind as plain obvious.

_Rose.  
_-and I smiled because I 'd remembered the name.

Leaving footprints on the thin layer of snow below my feet, the words the officer said come again to my ears.

_You are not Shadow. _

How ridiculous, Little Man.

If I 'm not Shadow, mind telling me, who might I be?

* * *

**A.N: For the sake of this, Amy's eighteen. Also, Shadow's happy because I don't own him.  
**


End file.
